


clairvoyance.

by zephyrbabie



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: 1980s, Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Best Friends, Brooklyn, Childhood Friends, Clairvoyance, Coming of Age, Developing Friendships, Disappearance, Dominant Julian Devorak, Dorks in Love, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Female Apprentice (The Arcana), Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Investigations, Jealousy, Julian Devorak's Route, Loss of Parent(s), Loss of Virginity, Lucio (The Arcana) Being A Dick, M/M, Major Original Character(s), Mental Health Issues, Missing Persons, Murder Mystery, Named Apprentice (The Arcana), New York City, Occult, Organized Crime, POV Original Female Character, Partying, Porn with Feelings, Poverty, Read at Your Own Risk, Relationship(s), Romantic Friendship, Students, Unrequited Love, Wealth, asra and sage were little desert flowers fending for themselves i'm weak, gossip girl/13rw-esque, its the 80s in new york baby expect partying and crime and sex, lucio is alright in this one, poor new york kids sucked into a high-society investigation, sage the apprentice!, the apprentice is the fool, vesuvia is some private uni in brooklyn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:00:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23548822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zephyrbabie/pseuds/zephyrbabie
Summary: Unbeknownst to me at the time, the night that I saw as the best of my life was the eve of a tragedy — a tangled web of mysteries and secrets that I somehow found myself in the middle in.How did a nobody-from-nowhere student of The Vesuvian Institute with extrasensory perception end up in the middle of the investigation to find Manhattan’s favorite self-serving socialite after his unexpected disappearance?I don't know how trouble always finds me, (I must warn you, this isn't your typical 1980s coming-of-age tale. There's romance and friendship and self-discovery, but not without some magic and crime and secrets and lies in the mix), but if we are to begin, let us begin at the start.
Relationships: Apprentice & Julian Devorak, Apprentice/Asra (The Arcana), Apprentice/Julian Devorak, Asra (The Arcana)/Original Female Character(s), Julian Devorak & You, Julian Devorak/Original Character(s), Julian Devorak/Original Female Character(s), Julian Devorak/Reader, Lucio (The Arcana)/Original Female Character(s), Lucio/Nadia (The Arcana), Lucio/Valerius (The Arcana), Portia Devorak/Nadia, julian devorak/sage abalond
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	clairvoyance.

**chapter i.**

**1983.**

******

Unbeknownst to me at the time, the night that I saw as the best of my life was the eve of a tragedy — a tangled web of mysteries and secrets that I somehow found myself in the middle in.

But I’d hate to start such a story without a proper setup. 

How did a nobody-from-nowhere student of The Vesuvian Institute with extrasensory perception end up in the middle of the investigation to find Manhattan’s favorite self-serving socialite after his abstruse disappearance? 

It begins not in New York, where our story will unfold, but in an arid desertscape with two transient teenagers in desperate need to get something more out of life.

**

“Life works in mysterious ways” is an understatement.

My father always said it to me when I had asked him why the universe didn’t let me know my mother, why we had to move around so much, why I never attended the same school for more than a year or two.

He used it as a placeholder for a dangerous truth too difficult to explain to a child. That or silence. His silence was always deafening. I was the confused, vagabond daughter of a man of few words and many odd jobs. He didn’t have the time to see my gradual change in behavior. 

When I was eleven, I began to see and hear things others couldn’t. Things that were, and things that were to be. I kept my distance from him as we continued across the country, slowly collecting clues from my family’s past. My mother’s murder for her Wiccan practices and his trouble with money made sense to me after time. I was young, developing clairvoyance, and isolated. 

I resented him for the life my mother and I had set me up to live. I regret my coldness now as I approach my twentieth year. He was devoted, or as devoted as you can be while drinking yourself to death. He always made sure I was well read, well-educated, and a fine speaker beyond my years.

It’s funny. My best friend said “everything you say sounds like you read it from a book” on one of our first encounters. My father would be proud of himself for achieving that. He wasn’t a failure, he just failed to ever find balance.

“The universe demands balance,” is something else Asra would always say.

Two years after my father’s death in ‘77, I met Asra Alnazar. He was hardly a year my senior, an ambitious, self-made boy from the Southwest with a similar connection to and affinity for the occult. 

I was out of school at 12, undocumented and orphaned, finding myself in the Nevada sun working in a somewhat hokey, run-down metaphysical store owned by an older woman whose ancestors practices spiritual mysticism. She let me sleep above the shop out of the kindness of her heart. We hardly spoke, she usually worked alone or was visiting family on the nearby reservation, but she was gentle and full of knowledge. It was enough pay to survive, but she was in her early 70s when I first met her, and I feared losing her, because with her would go a roof over my head and any income I was making.

So at night, I would run off to the main part of town where gamblers and drinkers would roam the streets, suddenly enlightened and needing guidance in their stupors, having no regard for their wallets and suddenly having a high reverence for tarot cards and planetary positioning. I would set up a small tent in an abandoned lot right on Main Street, and made enough money to keep myself afloat. I was a bit taller than most girls my age, and the sun had created the illusion of an older face, so I was hardly heckled or unpaid.

Two years later, after a weekend spent working late in the shop, a booth was in my position, and a mop of fluffy hair, white either from sun exposure or fascinating genetics, sat in the center. 

I had seen him before in years past, maybe once or twice, selling hand-crafted masks, dream-catchers, assorted talismans, and party masks. I bought one from him once, but our conversation escaped me at the time, if there was any. Any affability I could have had for the fellow stray disappeared when I saw him in my booth. 

My heart sunk, but I forced my territorial frustration to the forefront of my readable expression to appear more intimidating. As a child, I would’ve run away and accepted defeat, finding another spot. But damn it, for two years I fed myself on this street and like hell someone new was going to cut into my income.

“Hi,” I said firmly, more like a question. I was fifteen then, and had a bit more arrogance from the feeling of superiority I felt that I rightfully earned from being on the streets for so long (not to mention, being on the road since my earliest memory). I stood with my head held high and my grip firmly on the bag over my shoulder.

“Good evening,” he sleepily looked up from the journal he was etching in. “What brings you here today?”

His eyes were such a tinted brown they appeared violet in the lowlight, and I realized this man, this  _ boy, _ was not much older than I was. Fifteen at most.

I swallowed, trying to fight the empathy I began to feel. I knew better than anyone what it was like having to grow up too fast in order to survive. No child should be in survival mode.

“Business,” I said, softer than before. “It appears you took my spot.”

I proceeded with caution. He could’ve been some asshole teenager who found a tarot deck in the trash and decided to scam inebriated strangers.

He smiled sheepishly, but didn’t immediately apologize. “And what business do you do here?”

“Who else sits in a tent with candles and attracts customers? I read people.”

He gave me a sly grin and didn’t break eye contact as he shuffled his deck. My eyes darted to the contents in his hands.  _ Homemade. Like mine. _ “You … read people?”

I didn’t register myself sitting down in front of him, but I must’ve after I spoke last, because now he’s leaning into my space, inches away from my face, and continues, “or do you simply and plainly see what others cannot see?”

My eyes widened and he drew back, chuckling. “It’s okay, your secret is safe with me. As long as mine is with you.”

I clenched my jaw, feeling both defensive and giddy. I never made friends in the two years I’ve been on my own. I knew what he was talking about, his secret, even if he danced around it. 

He was like me.

I didn’t know how I knew, but I did.

“What, that you’re always this painfully vague or that you have … abilities?”

He laughed again. “I’ll tell you what, we both set up shop here, and we don’t compete. Split the profits.”

I smiled. “I’ll do you one better, how about that and a real job during the daytime?”

I reached for his hand without asking, taking the pen out of my jacket pocket and writing on his hand the address to the shop.

He scoffed, feigning insult. “And sitting barefoot on the side of a liquor-flooded street isn’t?”

He held onto my hand a moment longer before I pulled away.

“Thank you. Strangers are never so kind.”

“Good thing we’re not going to be strangers anymore, yeah?” I said, gathering my bag from the ground and standing up. “I’m Sage.”

“Asra,” he smiled, a blush rising to his cheeks, and he stood up to meet me. He was an inch or so taller than me, and extended his tanned hand rather formally.

I slapped it playfully and turned on my heel, backing away from him with a newfound swing in my step. “See you at work, Asra the Magician.”

“Sage the Clairvoyant, it’s been a pleasure,” he dramatically bowed and disappeared into the depths of the tent as I disappeared into the young desert night. 

** 

Two years later, after Ms. Nadie passed away peacefully in her sleep and the shop was running itself into the ground in her absence, we took a bus to New York. To work, to learn, to live beyond survival. We needed more. Every night for the past year, Asra and I promised we’d escape, and escape together. When we had just enough money, we left the hardship we had known behind to begin our next adventure.

We rented a studio apartment in the northern Lower East Side of Manhattan. We worked more than we rested, and resting was usually the two of us smoking weed on the rooftop and talking for hours with a bottle I brought home from my night job as a bartender. Times were tough, but we were tougher, and we had big dreams. 

We made friends in our neighborhood and building — a quiet, rugged giant of a teenager, looking at least 25 at the age of 18, who Asra and I quickly took a liking to and a young, talkative Russian girl a year our junior with wild, fiery hair. Muriel worked remotely, an aspiring environmentalist with a distaste for most people. Portia, like Asra and I, was orphaned and now worked as a maid for one of Manhattan’s high society families, the Satrinavas, but mainly was just the confidant and best friend of the youngest Prakan sister, despite their polar opposite upbringings.

The four of us often spent the wee hours of the morning hunched over chinese food and cheap wine with the radio on until we’d all pass out for a few hours until the alarm rang and we groaned in unison, cursing the sun for rising as soon as it did.

**

I remember every night that my life changed vividly. The night that uprooted me from the comfort of a directionless routine was not too long ago. It began where I would expect it to begin: at my job at The Rowdy Raven on Canal Street.

The dive bar I had managed to be working at for two and a half years (a long, long two and a half years, mind you) was occupied by only regulars. It was a Wednesday night in early August, and the unusually cold rain discouraged many from leaving their homes. I looked out the windows to see the streets filled only with taxis and scurrying commuters. I found comfort in the easy night ahead of me. I could pour a few drinks myself, finish a few new job applications behind the bar, and call it an early night (if the old man who always wore a dirty suit wasn’t going to pass out at last call like he did every other night).

The bell hanging above the worn front door rang and I paid no attention to who entered, knowing that if it were a regular, and they likely would be, that they would take it upon themselves to make some kind of mediocre joke and then expect their usual to be brought to them when they seat themselves so we can have a friendly catch-up, as if they weren’t just in the night before.

I looked up when I heard no greeting, surprised that someone would leave unannounced.

I was even more surprised when I saw the towering figure at the entrance, donning all black, taking off his overcoat and placing it on the hanger, and ruffling his dark red mop of waves out of his face.

When he looked up for a moment at his surroundings, his pale face finally caught the dim, yellow light. He was undeniably handsome, young with intense and angular features, and an alluring presence to match. I found myself frantically straightening my outfit. 

I was suddenly quite self-conscious, though I had spent the free hour before my shift actually putting some effort into my appearance. My long black hair was teased and to the side, cascading natural curls, rather than my usually lazy middle-part, one that I held onto after the ‘70s came and gone. I turned to the circular mirror that randomly hung on the bar, making sure my makeup was still intact after the rain, public transportation, and shot of whiskey I already had. My lips were still stained with a subtle dark red and my underslept eyes remained brightened by the dark shadow on my lids, but the black turtleneck and leather skirt number I had on was now stained by different spots of various drying liquids. 

I probably looked like I just finished nannying, but being a somewhat intelligent young woman in a bar full of emotionally-underdeveloped men drowning their marital sorrows in liquor is essentially babysitting.

The man glided over to the bar just as I finished fussing over myself (thankful none of the regular patrons noticed or I’d get an earful) and he `folded his lanky form onto a stool.

I kept my eyes down. I found a wet glass to dry to make myself appear busy. “Beautiful night, isn’t it? I’ll take it that you'll have a margarita.”

A joke. Simple first interaction with a handsome stranger.  _ Customer _ , I corrected myself.

I never took any of my patrons’ flirtations seriously. I worked to get them drunk. I wished them luck if they thought that I would be a suitable partner.

The closest thing to a boyfriend I’ve ever had was Asra, on and off. It never got weird, it never got complicated. We were partners in crime and partners in this life anyway, so it got easy to cross the line between friends and friends-who-kiss. But I convinced myself that none of that counted anyway.

So why was the room suddenly twenty degrees hotter since I caught a glimpse of this man?

Did a drunkard knock over the air conditioner or something?

He laughed, a lovely, airy laugh, and shook his head, hair obscuring his already-patched right eye. “No, no, I’m afraid I’ve had one too many on the beach already today.”

A jokester, too. With an Eastern European accent.  _ Fuck _ .

I put down the glass I was drying and met his gaze. I thought I was mistaken, but it appears I wasn’t: he’s been looking directly at me this whole time.

“I’m a dark liquor man, myself, and will take whatever whiskey you see fit for an overworked medical student,” he continued, yawning with outstretched arms. He lazily propped his chin on folded hands, elbows on the table, leaning forward with intrigue.

“The best people are. Luckily I’m one of them,” I smiled sympathetically. I wasn’t studying to save lives, but hell, I  _ was _ overworked. And overdue for a cigarette, come to think of it. 

I turned and grabbed my bottle of choice, inexpensive enough for a glass but heavy-hitting and smoother than its price suggests. I took out two rock glasses and poured. I saw Barth, my coworker, fiddling with the record player out of the corner of my eye. 

I slid the man the glass with a sincere smile and a, “let me know how it is,” before grabbing my own drink, handing an impatient patron another pint, and approaching my friend. 

“Cover me at the bar in five, I need a smoke and a break,” I said, sipping the glass.

The older man, tall and heavy, crossed his arms and clicked his tongue, flipping a record over. Some mediocre British punk played over the speaker and he beamed at the room around him, now more lively with music. He turned back to face me, to see me impatient with arms folded, and he cocked a pierced brow.

“But there’s someone new here. You do better with that.” His thick Scottish accent was slurred, and I could tell he was already tipsy and didn’t want to deal with it. “You’re the pretty one, I’m the funny one, remember?”

I rolled my eyes and took another long sip. “Drink water. And by the way, I’m both. You’re just here to make me look even better.” 

He laughed and shook his head. “Full five minutes. If I don’t get the full five to put on my happy face, deal’s off and you have to wait until Selsei gets here to relieve you.”

“Deal,” I extended my hand and he shook mine firmly once. 

I began to return to the bar only to see the auburn-haired medical student’s head whip around, ears turning pink. Had he been just … watching me?

“How was she?” I ask, draining my own glass a bit too quickly and scrunching my nose up.

He smirked, “Delightful, I can see why you drink on the job.”

I rolled my eyes. “There are no rules against it. Or there are. I don’t know. My first year here I was working underage, anyway.”

“It’s the ‘80s in the big city, my dear. Nothing has rules against anything,” he mused. He nodded to the shelf where we were drinking from and I took it as a cue to pour him another drink. “I was going to ask now what your age would be now, but I realized I don’t know your name to begin with.”

He sipped from his glass expectantly and quickly sputtered when I shook my long hair from over my shoulder to behind my back. I pointed to my name tag with a shy smile. I never really liked my name, or liked when people knew it. I covered my name tag with my hair most nights unless someone interesting enough piqued my interest and I decided an exchange of names would be appropriate. Usually they were travellers, artists, jazz musicians … weathered older faces that had stories to tell.

But he was so young, and still I felt drawn to hear his story.

“Sage,” he mused out loud. “Does that make you pure or wise?”

Against my better judgment, I poured some red wine into the rocks glass and leaned forward, elbows against the bar and face just a foot from his. 

“You believe in name meanings? I think my parents just glanced at their herbs and decided ‘Sage’ was the least absurd. My name could’ve ended up being ‘Mugwort’. Free spirits, they were.”

He laughed at my unintentional joking. I smiled warmly at him. He was charming, suave, but a good listener. He was asking questions about  _ me _ , not complaining about his long day to some female forced to listen like half of the other university students that find their way in here. 

“If either, I’m probably the latter. I’m not a deviant, but I’ve definitely lived enough that purity is off the table,” I continued, beginning to fix a whiskey sour for a quiet, mustached private investigator who frequently inhabits a corner booth.

He grinned, baring teeth in a devilish smile, “I get the feeling you’re both.”

I scoffed, feigning offense, “Now, why would you think a bartender in this part of town would be pure.”

His eyes wandered over my face, examining.

I realized he saw right through my usual act of being a tough, self-sufficient adult. My skin was still smooth, and the only evidence of a youth spent in the sun are the light freckles that dust the bridge of my nose. My eyes are naturally bright and full of wonder, plush lips always set in an expression of confusion. And my frame was slight and soft. I stood taller than most females I encountered, but it was easy to tell I was young. Still new to the city. Still a skeptic.

_Still a little too innocent._ And he saw right through that.

Not in the usual predatory way that men see innocence, as something they can claim, though. He examined my features with caution, curiosity, and care.

“I’m nearing 20,” I admitted, voice low, responding to his initial question. I hoped my voice was too low for him to hear, but unfortunately it wasn't.

His eyes widened slightly and he let out a low whistle, looking away. 

“And now I feel utterly inappropriate with the third question I formed,” he pondered, not meeting my eyes, but rather smirking at the glass in his hands. His third.

“And what question was that?” I asked, voice soft. It came out far more seductive and way less curious than I intended.

Our faces managed to now only be inches apart as we both leaned against the divide between us.

It wasn’t my imagination. Whatever attraction felt like, it was here, and it was mutual.

He exuded mystery. The dimly lit room exaggerated the shadows around his eyes, heavy with exhaustion, tipsiness, and longing. For a man no older than his late-twenties, he had an eyepatch and an aura of pain he might have been doing a good job at hiding, but I felt it as soon as the seam of his lips formed an endearing grin for the first time. 

And somehow, it felt like he felt mine.

We stared at each other for a moment too long, and as he opened his mouth to answer, Barth clumsily got behind the bar and started chatting up a group of older men in blue-collar work attire.

“Shit, I have to go smoke,” I said, frantically reaching into the apron around my waist for the cardboard box. I tossed the apron aside and hopped over the bar in one swift movement, finally face to face with the man, who had already stood. “I’ll keep you company, if you’d like.”

And what was I going to say? No?

So, we stood in the dark, damp alleyway behind the bar under an awning not-quite large enough to shield us from the persistent rainfall. Heavy heat hung in the late summer air.

He didn’t speak until my cigarette was lit and I offered him one, in which he responded with a “thank you, Sage” and an unsolicited closing-of-the-space-between-us. He held the tip of his cigarette to the cherry of mine, one hand over mine, piercing grey eyes never leaving my own.

“Anytime, …?” I trailed off, realizing I had the disadvantage of not knowing his name.

“Julian,” he said. The word rolled off of his tongue like honey even as he exhaled smoke.

We made small talk about our occupations. He was doing residency in an emergency room in addition to his education. I vaguely described my rags-to-slightly-better-rags story, and after having just asked him what kind of dog he has, I took a drag of solely filter. I made a face and tossed it aside on the ground.

He took a few more deep inhales before abandoning his as well. “You go through those fast, huh?” he teased, staring at his cigarette, only half smoked, still smoking on the shining asphalt. 

“I don’t mess around.” I suddenly became aware of our close proximity, through his open lapel, his white shirt clinged to him from the rain. I shivered, and regretted the flirtatious response.

His cheeks flushed and he leaned a bit closer. “I bet you don’t.”

I looked up at him; he had to be nine or ten inches taller than me.

I have never been so close to a man, a man who looked like  _ this _ , not in this context. Not in the pouring rain, sharing breathing space, having just met, having not enough self-control to say…

“What were you going to ask me?” I asked quietly. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, so I placed them cautiously on his shoulders, barely touching.

A flicker of panic flashed across his face, as if he was in the midst of some great moral dilemma. 

He put his hands on my waist regardless, almost encircling me with them.

“Well, you’re nine _ teen _ ,” he put emphasis on “teen”. I swallowed my disappointment and responded with only “for another week”.

He chuckled sadly. “Ah, and in another week I’ll still be five years your senior. And we just met in a bar and,  _ gods _ , I never do this, I really never do.”

He was rambling.

“Has anyone ever told you there’s just something about you?” he asked, teeth worrying his bottom lip. “Because I worked for three days straight and I still want to stay up all night in your company and hear your story. And we just met but I was going to ask if you have a phone num-”

He was rambling. So I shut him up.

Before I could even register my actions, my hands were on his neck, cupping his jaw, and pulling his face down to mine. At first, our lips merely grazed each others’, and then his grip tightened on my waist and he pulled me against him, flush, and our mouths collided feverishly. His mouth was soft and warm and we both tasted the same: coffee, cigarettes, and brown liquor. 

In that moment, the feeling of being lost in a world where everyone has a place faded into nothing. I was a young, hard-working woman in a big city, being kissed like she’s never been kissed before. I felt liberated with each tug on my lips, each soft stroke of a tongue. 

I was so hungry to be seen, and I didn’t know it until this moment. I was seen by somebody I would never think to acknowledge me, and we were now soaked in rain, grasping at each others’ bodies like they’re our life source.

I pulled away slowly, running my thumbs over his soft, flushed face. He looked at me from heavy, yet wide eyes and his swollen mouth agape. His bright hair messily framed his face and —

“You’re beautiful,” I said aloud, with no intention of doing so. 

He let out a breathless laugh and I laughed too, but out of embarrassment.

“Fuck,” I ran my hands down his chest and dropped them at my sides. I pointed to my head. “That was supposed to be up here.”

He pulled me towards him once more to plant a soft, tender kiss on my lips.

“I pale in comparison to you.”

“I do have a phone number. And you can call me. Even if you have to wait a week to feel, I don’t know, better about yourself for making out with a young bar wench.”

He laughed, half in shock, shaking his head in disbelief, “you’re a fiery little one, aren’t you?”

“Mmm,” I hummed, running a hand through his hair. “I think you’re projecting.”

“And she’s well-read. What’s a beauty with such a sharp wit doing in a place called The Rowdy Raven?” he flattered me, peppering my cheek and neck with soft kisses. I sighed.

“School is money. Money is something I don’t have. A work in progress, though,” I explained, small, shaky breaths escaping my throat with each kiss.

He looked at me again, now sympathetically, but when I responded with an expression of knit-eyebrows and a “please don’t pity me” eyeroll, he simply responded with, “well, one day we could go to my school and you’ll see that shitty apartments and binge-drinking aren’t all that they’re cracked up to be.”

“I already have experienced those both. It’s the education that I want.”

He pressed a kiss to my forehead and put his hand delicately at the waistline of my skirt. I looked at him with curiosity and then down at where his hand was, seeing a $100 bill. More than double his bill.

“Julian,” I began, annoyance rising in my voice. I wasn’t really annoyed, I just hated accepting more than I earned.

“Call me, darling,” he said, pulling away from me and taking my hand in his, looking me in the eyes as he planted a kiss to it. I bit my bottom lip. He sure was a charmer. “I’m afraid I’ll wake up in the Bronx if I don’t head home now.”

“Subways are really calming, try not to let the mechanical screeching lull you to sleep.”

“Tonight was a gift. I am glad I met you Sage. I hope I can see you again.” 

With a parting kiss, he began out of the alleyway.

My heart sank.  _ My phone number… _

I looked at the dollar bill in my hand and saw that someone scribbled a message in black ink.

> _**202-069-5492** _
> 
> _**MIGHT BE TOO FORWARD,** _
> 
> _**BUT I’D LOVE TO TAKE YOU** _
> 
> _**OUT SOMETIME. THANK YOU** _
> 
> _**FOR YOUR KINDNESS & COMPANY.** _
> 
> _**CALL ME WHEN YOU GET HOME SAFELY.** _
> 
> _**-J** _

He wrote on the dollar before we even went outside.

_ Before we even kissed. _

I touched my lips and felt them still tingling, infact, my whole body felt like a livewire.  _ We kissed. _

It had been almost a year since my last intimate contact. This was my first kiss with somebody who wasn’t Asra.

I felt my heart ache with a twinge of guilt.

I had ended any developments in our relationship the last roundabout. Did I create distance out of fear or need for stability? Probably both. Was that selfish? Probably. But Asra and I were always better together, and if being  _ together _ together had a higher chance of us losing what we had, it wasn’t a chance I could stomach taking. 

There was still suspicion among our friends that the feelings on his end were forced to fade, and something still lingered. I swatted away the suggestion, perishing the thought, but it always sat in my mind idly, rousing with every innocent remark made by Portia.

Outside perspectives planted a seed, but nothing grew to the point where Asra and I found ourselves spending time apart after any of our “break-ups”. We were just as thick as thieves as we had been as young teenagers running barefoot on the scorched pavement. 

As if on cue, I saw my counterpart enter the back door of the Raven, and I was suddenly made aware of the time.  _ Shit _ .

I had to go back inside, close my tabs, collect my tips, and head home.

Asra said he had news for me before I left for work.

**

Asra sat across the booth from me, clearly crawling out of his skin with excitement. I cocked an eyebrow at him, as if to say “are you going to tell me already or what?”

The Edison bulb above the table provided dim light as I organized my money on the sticky wooden table. I stacked it all up and put the cash in my wallet, cracked my knuckles, and leaned forward to face my best friend.

“So,” I began.

“So,” he responded.

Silence.

I narrowed my eyes. “ _ And? _ ”

“Okay, so please don’t be angry with me,” he began, holding his hands up in defense.

“Asra, what did you do?” I asked, lightly laughing but also well-aware of the anxiety bubbling up in my chest. Someone opening up with a request like that generally means unpleasantness is soon to follow.

“Nothing bad! I promise!” he waved his hands, laughing.

He took out a letter from the inside of his coat pocket and laid it on the table, facing me.

He began to fidget with his hands, biting the corner of his mouth.

_ The Vesuvian Institute. _

That was the school Asra was supposed to start commuting to in Williamsburg two weeks from then.

Except it wasn’t addressed to Asra Alnazar. It was addressed to me.

“Asra?” I looked up in confusion, awaiting an explanation.

“So, you’ve been talking about school more and more over the past year, and you helped me so much with my portfolio and all of the paperwork, and all of these pesky fees, and you’re  _ so _ smart, Sage. Truly the most intelligent and capable person I’ve ever met. And you don’t deserve to spend the best years of your life behind a bar or working retail in one of those fake metaphysical shops. This?” he gestured around the room. “Is beneath you. You’ll always be the rugged, dive-bar Southwesterner who captured my heart. But you can be so much more.”

His words were fast and impassioned. He spoke at a manic pace, hands fidgeting the entire time. I placed mine over his and forced him to meet my eye.

He continued, “I filled out an application. For you. Don’t worry, everything’s accurate, I know you better than the government.”

I nervously laughed, not entirely registering the “I filled out an application for you” bit.

I took all of the same entry exams as Asra in solidarity, but never did I intend on attending any of the universities. Asra had been saving up for an education in Metaphysics. I had been saving up for nothing in particular.

“You needed an essay. I put you down as undecided with an interest in mystical science. Did you know you could get a  _ doctorate _ for that? Dr. Sage the Clairvoyant,” he beamed. His expression turned nervous and he tightened his grasp on my hands.

“I went through your writings. I’m sorry, I just couldn’t write anything as well as you could. And then I found it: a small piece you wrote when we first moved here, telling your story starting at your father’s passing and our metaphysical attachment, and finishing with hope for a brighter future on the night we settled in here. It was beautiful, and you shone through it. All of you shone; the pain, the humor, the wisdom, the resilience.”

If he wasn’t leaving me in such suspense, I would’ve immaturely slapped him for going through my personal shit. Asra and I share everything, but my words are  _ mine. _

And now some suit is probably running it through a shredder.

I felt heat rise to my face. I ripped my hands away and opened the envelope.

* * *

_ Dear Miss Sage Abalond, _

_ We are happy to inform you that you have been accepted to begin your studies at The Vesuvian Institute this Fall Semester, 1983. _

_ We would like to offer you a full-ride, all tuition payments covered, as well as housing. If you have pre-existing housing and would like to relocate closer to the campus, this offer will be carried over to a sum of $1,000.00 in the form of a cashable check to be applied to rent anywhere in Williamsburg. _

_ I write to you personally, as you are the first student in many years to catch my attention with an incredible personal story and near-perfect testing scores, and your application wasn’t even filled out by you. _

_ I hope you accept this offer and begin your studies with us this fall and you forgive Mr. Alnazar for meddling with your academic endeavors. He was quite frantic when he broke into my office demanding that I accept your application. _

_ I look forward to hearing from you soon, _

_ Morga Eirsdottir _

_ Dean of Students _

_ Cosigned: _

_ Namar Satrinava _

_ President of The Vesuvian Institute / US Ambassador to Praka _

* * *

I swallowed hard, paper shaking in my hands. Asra looked at me with anticipation, awaiting my reaction.

I smiled at the paper and then at my best friend, the author of a brighter future, my family: Asra.

_ He did all of this for me. _

“I’m going to be a student again,” I smiled weakly. I felt the threat of tears and exhaled slowly. 

All of my self-education would be put to the test. My father would be proud. What if I fail? What if this is the out I needed?

Fear and folly fought each other in my mind but all I could do is launch myself across the table and wrap my arms around Asra’s neck, burying my face in his neck. He stumbled back against the booth and laughed, returning the embrace.

I didn’t know what to say. I hardly ever did, but I was especially lost for words now. 

All I could come up with was a breathless, relieved “thank you.”

In his arms, in the Raven, summer rain tapping incessantly on the windows … in that moment, I had _hope_.

******

In occult tarot, the 22nd Major Arcana, The Fool, stands on the edge of a cliff, always ready to step forward into the next adventure. But beginner's luck never lasts long. After so many leaps of faith, they will find themselves in over their heads. Reversed.

I didn’t know the universe casted me as its fool in this life until Lucio Morgasson disappeared. 

The night I got accepted into the university, I pulled my daily card. 

Death, upright. A new beginning. One I was ready to dive into headfirst. 

Foolishly.

Because in the next coming week, The Tower, upright, would sit heavily in my pocket.

And you don’t need clairvoyance to know that sudden upheaval isn’t a good sign.

******

**Author's Note:**

> hi hi!  
> i'm vic and i got the idea for this 3 weeks into my american quarantine.  
> i had the idea for a modern university/high-society scandal type au, but modern life is a fucking nightmare so here! the 80s! what better time for our reckless main 6 to be in new york!
> 
> will provide some visuals/audio guides to go with this fic if y'all show it love <3
> 
> i really love sage. she chooses family, chooses laughter, chooses opportunity at every turn. she's brave and stubborn, but naive, modeled after The Fool.
> 
> writing her is going to be such a fun adventure. oh, and of course i paired my first female OC with julian. a reckless, passionate med student in bed-stuy during the 80s? no question.
> 
> this chapter may be a bit backstory-heavy, and for that i apologize. gotta set up this dumpster fire somehow!
> 
> kisses  
> xx  
> vic


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